


do i have to write it on your bedroom wall, you fool?

by lunchables



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Restauraunt AU, Slow Burn, and wants the best for everyone, clarke is the manager at a restaurant lexa gets a job at, clarke just loves everyone, lexa is angsty af half the time and the other half stupdily smitten by clarke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:10:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunchables/pseuds/lunchables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Lexa is going to be completely honest—</p><p>The only reason she finds herself handing in an application to a restaurant of all places, is because—</p><p>Well.</p><p>(She has a thing for blondes.)</p><p>a restaurant AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thirty Seconds of Exerting 89% Of Your Willpower To Not Look At Clarke Griffin's Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks [@staryuniverse](http://staryuniverse.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for makin sure this wasnt boring as shit :)
> 
> im at [@izztstei](http://izztstei.tumblr.com/)

If Lexa is going to be completely honest—

The only reason she finds herself handing in an application to a  _ restaurant  _ of all places, is because—

Well.

(She has a thing for blondes.)

* * *

 

She really is job-hunting, for the record. She started circling ads in the paper, for fuck’s sake.

Lexa has just had lunch with Anya after her first interview with a Forever 21 outlet. Lexa barely had enough energy to support a sustainably entertaining conversion with Anya, whom she has known since their early high school days. Hours felt longer than they were, and Lexa hadn't felt this tired in lifetimes. But Anya had reminded her that she might need the comfort of familiarity amongst this new life Lexa was scrounging for, and that was how the two of them ended up at Arkadia’s Restaurant & Bar, a little tipsy at four in the afternoon after three pints of beer.

The pair was just leaving when this blonde-haired beauty of a stranger wishes them “an awesome afternoon” from the hostess stand. 

(It's cheesy as fuck, Anya later points out, the way Lexa does a double-take with enough momentum to give herself whiplash.)

* * *

 

(In another world, someone calls it love at first sight.)

* * *

(“Clarke, by the way,” the blonde had said cheerily as Lexa was pushing through the restaurant’s door after filling out and handing in an application.

Anya was already outside, waiting albeit impatiently, but Lexa paid her no mind. “Sorry?” Lexa asked, pausing mid-entryway.

“My name. It's Clarke,” she had told her, still standing behind the authoritative safety of the hostess stand.

“Oh.” It wasn't a smile, but rather a delicate upturn of Lexa’s mouth. “I'm Lexa.”

“I know.” Clarke gestured to the filled application casually for emphasis. “I hope to see you again, Lexa.”

Lexa wanted to hear her name roll off Clarke’s tongue again, wanted to capture its fruity breath. “Me too,” she tried for instead.)

(Lexa can't quite put her finger on why she's applied to a restaurant.)

(It’s total unfiltered, raw, and honest luck.)

(It’s also a superficial schoolgirl crush.)

* * *

She must have made one hell of an impression on Manager Clarke of Arkadia's Restaurant, because the next day, Lexa is called back for an interview, and Lexa isn't totally sure how that happens.

(It's totally luck.)

* * *

“So. Why do you want to work at Arkadia’s Restaurant?”

It's an obvious question, considering that, you know, this is an interview _. _

Questions like these tend to come up.

(This is Lexa's eighth interview this week, after all, and it might be the eighth establishment to never call her back.)

And yet, Lexa is caught with a swollen tongue choking back words, her fingers tightly knitted in her lap, while her left knee bounces under the table insatiably.

_ “Why do you want to work at Arkadia’s Restaurant?” _

_ Because I'm proving them wrong. _

_ Because I’m not the punchline to a bad joke. _

_ Because I don't need their money. _

_ Because they don't own me. _

_ Because I don’t have any other choice. _

The man across the booth is oddly sweet, charming even.

At first, Lexa’d struggled to mask her disappointment that the pretty manager wasn't conducting her interview, instead this Bellamy character, but Lexa decided to grow a pair and take this interview as seriously as any other.

(Childish infatuations in blondes aside, Lexa really needs a job—

_ a job, some job, any job _

— she needs it like color requires the light to exist, like how the supply is worthless without its demand, like how money would be ugly paper without the weight of society.)

Lexa’s eyes trail along the edges of Bellamy’s curly hair, the soft slope of his jaw, the freckles on his cheeks. It all gives him a boyish air that had smoothed out Lexa's explosive nerves before the interview even began, and still now his relative nonchalance reassures her, grounding her back from the contradicting shouts barreling over one another in her head, fighting for the forefront of her consciousness, demanding the reigns of Lexa’s verbal communications.

(To be fair, if the pretty blonde had interviewed her, Lexa might be horrifically even more of a stammering mess, which is statistically not the impression she is going for.)

Lexa blinks, noting by Bellamy's expectant gaze that she's taking far too long to respond. Though her demeanor is a rigid spine and a plaster of stoic expressions, and her movements are formal and calculated, her hesitation is far too dangerous a giveaway, and so she clears her throat, faking a cough to fill the air.

“Because I…” The words rot the instant they meet the air. “I’ve just… I always wanted to…” Lexa suppresses an irritable self-loathing groan, and wrings her hands together on the table.

“I've never had a job. I never needed one.” Lexa forces her eyes to meet Bellamy’s, and not find the floor.  _ Don’t back down now. “ _ My father runs a private practice; he's the most well-respected psychiatrist on the east coast. My mother is an air traffic controller for the most popularly used international airline in the world. They literally are among the top 9% of the wealthiest people in America.” An unwelcome heat creeps around her jawline and up her cheeks, flushing them, and she laughs despite herself. “They're loaded. By default, I always have been too. Money was never a language I struggled to understand; we always just  _ had _ it.”

She knows she's on the verge of rambling, but she can't find it in her to stop. “I want to deserve it,” she admits, her knee bouncing again. “I want to work for something, and earn my own way. Yes, I'm fluent in balancing a checkbook, and I learned how to trade stocks when I was fourteen but…” The blush in her cheeks finally cuts her off, for she trails away, her sentence hanging in midair like unwanted weeds.

“But the money was never yours,” he finishes for her, his tone light and empathetic.

“Yes.” None of it, by any means, is a lie. She’s just not sure she’s facing the reality of it yet.

“And why a restaurant?”

She wants to say she has to start somewhere, but she hesitates, biting her lip.

(Also, saying that a pretty woman named Clarke coerced her with her flattering cheekbones is not totally appropriate.)

“I need to work somewhere that won't go easy on me. And I think— I know that I can find that here.”

At that, Bellamy grins, and despite a gnawing fear that she’s fucked it up, that he's laughing at her, that he sees the spoiled Barbie doll in her that's been pampered her whole life and whines over her inherited privilege, like every other job did when they found a resume lacking any legitimate experience, Lexa feels her first spark of hope.

Bellamy drums his fingers over his knuckles. “Alright.” He rubs his hands together, glancing down at his clipboard. “And what makes you think you’ll be a good fit here?”

* * *

The call comes at eleven in the morning three days later. Lexa comes sprinting out of the bathroom of her hotel suite, sopping wet and fumbling with a towel around her as she dives across the bed for the phone on the night stand. 

She calms her gasps before answering, owning up a neutral, cool voice. “Hello?”

“Hi! Is this Lexa Woods?” It's not Bellamy, but rather a fruity, female voice, cool and coaxing through the phone, that raises the hairs on Lexa's neck.

“Yes, yes, this is she.” Lexa can't tell if she's sweating, or if it’s the water from her shower that coats her skin.

“Awesome. It's Clarke, a manager at Arkadia’s. We met earlier this week.” Lexa bites her lip, but Clarke goes on anyway. “Listen, so Bellamy said the interview went great, you were wonderful, and we’d love to welcome you to our staff if you're still interested.”

Lexa says nothing. 

She—

She says nothing. She has nothing to say.

Her breath latches to her tonsils and holds, and—

Lexa doesn’t know what to say.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“I- Yes, yes, yes, I'm here. Yes. That's wonderful. Yes. I'm very much still interested. Thank you so much, yes.” Lexa clamps her teeth down on her inner cheek to prevent herself from going on.  _ Christ,  _ how many yes’s can she ramble out?

A silvery laugh sounds in the receiver, and Clarke continues. “That's great, Lexa. We just need you to come in for your orientation, just some paperwork and scheduling, you know, the usual.” (Lexa doesn't actually know what “the usual” implies, but she hums her understanding regardless.) “How does Monday at two work for you?”

Lexa forces herself to count to three before leaping with her response. “Monday at two, wonderful.”

Clarke wishes her a good afternoon, and Lexa's face erupts in a childish grin that encompasses her entire face. She just barely withholds her giggles of excitement and glee before hanging up, and she bounces on the mattress, kicking her feet and squealing.

She did it.

Lexa Woods got a job. (And it has nothing to do with luck.)

* * *

Her orientation breezes by without issue. Bellamy is the one to supervise her over the paperwork and check out her documents, for which Lexa is thankful. His cool attitude keeps her nerves at bay through the hour that it takes to read everything over.

They talk schedules, and Lexa is somewhat embarrassed to admit that she has no conflicts whatsoever, her weeks to come entirely clear. If Bellamy is judging her, however, he never leaks the contempt through as he scribbles away on his clipboard.

Her training starts that following Wednesday morning, and Lexa sits at a high-top table by the bar, awaiting her trainer to arrive. Bellamy had come out of his office to hand her general training packets, going over customer service etiquette, the steps of greeting tables, and alcohol policies, before he disappeared back downstairs, leaving Lexa alone to read.

She's thumbing over ID-checking techniques when a girl she assumes to be her trainer tosses down onto the bar stool across from her, out of breath as she lugs her massive purse onto the table, wrinkling Lexa's packets in the process. The girl shoots out her hand, smiling through her labored breaths. “Hey, I'm Raven, you must be Lexa. Sorry I'm late, traffic’s a bitch, and Octavia drives like a depressed log.”

Lexa’s not sure if she’s supposed to laugh or not, so she cocks her head questioningly as she takes Raven’s hand. “Octavia?”

Another girl comes around the corner just then, carrying stacked milk crates of liquor bottles, a key lanyard dangling from her neck. “Hi!” she calls, voice strained around the effort of her load as she moves behind the bar. “I’m Octavia, bartender extraordinaire, roomie to that whining asshole over there.”

Raven flips the girl off.

Lexa hesitates before a light smile plays at her mouth. “No problem at all. It's a pleasure to meet you both.”

Something about how she said it makes Raven smirk, but the woman moves on. “Looks like Bell already got you started, so until the meeting starts I'm basically here if you have any questions about the material. Cool?”

Lexa nods.

The next half hour bounces between quiet reading, Raven quizzing her on wine brands, and the two roommates bickering over playful banter —

(“You don’t really need to know how to present a wine bottle, you can ask anyone to do it for you,” Raven tells Lexa.

“Okay,  _ fuck _ that, no,” Octavia interjects, slicing limes at the bar. “She should know how, it impresses the shit out of old people, and they'll throw her crazy tips if she does it right.”

“Nobody actually cares, O, shut up.”

“Excuse me, I care. And bitch,” Octavia throws a slice of lime at Raven, who swats it down, where it stains Lexa’s paperwork. “Maybe you should care too if you don't want to be late on rent again.”

“Oh my  _ God, _ that was one time over a year ago.”

“I had to go without tequila for a  _ week _ , Raven. It was traumatizing.”

“I’ll show her how to open a wine bottle later, Jesus.”)

Then the meeting rolls around, and Lexa is introduced, the other servers varying with lazy waves and gentle smiles in her direction, before Bellamy continues on.

(Lexa stifles disappointment at the lack of a certain blonde manager.)

The whole shift is essentially one long shadowing experience of Lexa trailing along beside Raven through a day at work, starting at eleven in the morning and wrapping up just after four. Lexa doesn't mind the lack of hands-on work for her first shift, considering she barely knows jack-shit about customer service in the first place. Any learning experience, she welcomes eagerly.

If she's being honest, she can't understand why they hired her in the first place, what the hell they see in her, but Lexa squashes down the insecurities, considering she's not gonna go pushing her luck by questioning them.

* * *

At the end of the shift, Raven and Lexa sit at the back of the restaurant eating lunch, free shift meals for training, when a tastefully recognizable blonde joins them, her hair whipping about her shoulders like she'd just run over. 

Clarke  drops down onto the chair beside Lexa, carelessly scooting closer to the brunette with an absolute pitiful sense for personal space.

“Hey!” she chirps, beaming a blinding smile. “I’m Clarke, in case you forgot. We talked on the phone. And before that, too.” She thrusts her hand out excitedly under Lexa’s chin, dangerously close, and Lexa forces a weak smile in return.

“Hi,” she manages as she takes the hand loosely. 

Clarke reaches out to rub Lexa's shoulder and squeezes it softly in what Lexa assumes is supposed to be friendly comfort, but Lexa twitches under the touch. “How's the first day been? Do you think you're getting the hang of it? I know it can totally be overwhelming, so don't worry about that, and, oh, never be afraid to ask questions. Anyone will be willing to offer a second, so-”

“Clarke.” Raven chuckles, setting her burger back down and wiping her hands. “You're freaking her out.”

Clarke turns back to Lexa with wide, apologetic eyes as she backed her chair away a bit. “Oh! I'm sorry, I seriously have no boundaries.” Then, leaning back into Lexa's zone, she whispers, “I'm pretty new to the managing thing, so I barely know what I'm doing either, if it makes you feel better.”

It does, Lexa realizes, but she's too busy avoiding the strain behind her eyes to drop her gaze lower.

Clarke grins once Lexa's frown melts away. (To be fair, half the pretense behind the frown was Lexa’s inner turmoil in avoiding looking at Clarke’s pink mouth, to which she gives up on, and her mouth looks _oh so grossly soft_ and Lexa feels like she's vandalizing something with her open stare.) Clarke continues obliviously. “Anyways, I'm glad I got the chance to meet you, again, but I have to go finish up some stuff before the dinner shift,” Clarke says, her grin never wavering. “I'll see you around.” With that, Clarke pushes away from the table and is just short of  _ skipping away  _ through the restaurant towards the office.

Lexa turns to Raven. “Is she-”

“Yes,” Raven deadpans. “She's always that annoying.”

The corner of Lexa's mouth perks up. “I was going to say enthusiastic.”

It appears a positive score of an answer in Raven's book, for the waitress grins. “That works too. Either way, it's impossible not to love her.”

Lexa tilts her head, suddenly uninterested in her food. “How so?” (Not that she can’t  _ not _ believe she couldn’t fall in lo—)

Octavia slides into the booth just then, beside Raven. “Are we talking about Clarke? Because, shit, she's in a good mood today.”

Raven gestures to Lexa. “You know how Clarke is with newbies.”

(Lexa tries not to take it personally.)

(She fails miserably.)

“Anyway, as I was saying before you rudely interrupted,” Raven grumbles, bobbing her shoulder against Octavia's playfully. “Everyone has to love Clarke. Clarke’s worked here longer than anyone. Even before Jaha, the GM.”

“GM?”

“General manager. Like the big daddy of our daddies,” Octavia states seriously.

“Gross,” Raven mutters, shaking her head. She continues, “Clarke started like, what, nine years ago? Yeah, she’s 24, she started at 15.”

“Wow,” Lexa mumbles.

“She only just started managing a few weeks ago, but I mean, everyone saw that coming. She knows everything there is to know about this place, and she was a damn good server. Basically everyone here has been under her wing at some point.”

“I am yet to actually get under her, unfortunately,” Octavia sighs wistfully, dropping her chin into her palm. At that, Raven angrily smacks Octavia's shoulder. “Ow! Shit, it was a joke.”

“Flirting with engaged women is  _ off limits _ , O’,” Raven admonishes as the other girl rubs at her sore arm.

(Lexa blinks.)

(Engaged?)

“It's hardly flirting if she's not even around,” Octavia bites back, before reaching across to steal a fry from Raven’s plate.

Lexa can't help it. “Clarke's engaged?”

Both Raven and Octavia turn to Lexa like she'd interrupted something intimate. Both their complexions equally soften at Lexa's question. Raven is the one to explain. “Oh, yeah, her boyfriend proposed like, last month. He's kind of a sleaze, but she seems happy.”

“Not the hottest, unfortunately,” Octavia admits. “But I think he’s an EMT or something, so I guess he must be smart.”

“Hey, I think he's gorgeous,” Raven retorts.

“Yeah, ‘cause you have a thing for pretty boys, hoebag.”

They go on, and on, and Lexa finds herself stabbing at her pasta. It's not like she knew Clarke at all — clearly, her knowledge comes to a careening halt at the gossip mill, and doesn't linger much farther. She can hardly be allowed to care about the matter. Even admitting she has a lame crush on Clarke is a stretch for grounds.

It doesn't matter, Lexa decides. What does, is the fact she has a job, and she can focus on that. 


	2. A Handbook On How To Avoid Flirting With Engaged Women: For Dummies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke stares a lot and still doesn't understand personal space.
> 
> Octavia has zero patience and it's always Raven's fault.
> 
> Lexa's mantra is so so stupid and so so necessary.

Lexa finishes her training after five shifts.

It's easy to grow comfortable in the atmosphere of Arkadia’s. It’s mellow — low-key. The servers are taught to be loose with their customers, friendly, hospitable. The laid-back aura of the booths and tables on one half of the restaurant easily makes it the best place to go for casual dining with the family, and with the full-stocked bar on the other side surrounded by round high-top tables and TV screens, it’s simultaneously one of the most popular local spots for raucous sports’ rootings with plenty of beers to slosh about. 

Sincerely, Lexa sticks to her prior dedication, and focuses on working as many hours as she can (because there's nothing else she can do). She takes Raven’s pointers on balancing a tray with nine glasses on it (she feels like she's relearning the definition of support), on up-selling the expensive cocktails over the house margaritas, on where to drop subtle hints of unknown corners of the menu, like where replacements can be made without charge, making a table feel like her best friend, making them love her (because for now, these artificial first impressions are all she has). 

All in all, she's not fumbling over waitressing as much as she thought she would, and the blurry fast pace of business keeps her from slowing down to think about— 

—hotel costs and apartment hunting and a car (and learning the subway system so she can stop taking cabs)—

—to think about everything she has been putting off.

Yet even at work, Lexa does more than once find herself dumbfoundedly floundering at her own naive remarks, as if she were born into the wrong hierarchy of society. 

(“This woman is such a pain in my  _ ass, _ ” Octavia grumbles as she makes away from the bar into the seclusion of the server station. “First, she claims my bar is sticky like I'm some wilderness freak oblivious to sanitization, which, like, the fuck? I keep my bar cleaner than Francis keeps his asshole, for starters. Not to mention, she did sit down before I had a chance to bus those seats, so what was she expecting?”

Raven’s mixing a kid's chocolate milk for Lexa while the girl fills glasses of water, both listening idly to Octavia's rant.

“Then,  _ then, _ she asks for a Black Russian, and, you know what this bitch says? You wanna know what she says?”

Raven mouths Octavia's next words quietly to Lexa as Octavia goes on. “‘ _ Do you know how to make one of those?’ _ ”

Lexa smirks.

“Jesus Christ, woman! A Black Russian is not a special a drink, calm your  _ tits _ .” Octavia slumps against the glass washer, rubbing her temples. “Oh, it gets worse. Seriously, the old bat not only spills her drink all over the bar, getting into my ice bin — which I now have to completely empty out and clean, thanks — but she knocks over a bottle of wine because she's just ‘oh so clumsy,’” Octavia mimics gravelly. 

Lexa chuckles as she asks, “Why don't you just ask her to leave?”

Octavia and Raven both snort at that (and Lexa doesn't get it). “Yeah, I wish,” Octavia mumbles.

Lexa frowns, remembering numerous fine-dining restaurants she'd been out to with her parents where people had been kicked out for rude behaviors and disturbances after too much obnoxiously priced whiskey. “No, seriously,” she presses, but Raven is already walking back to one of Lexa’s tables, and Octavia is pushing herself away from the glass washer to punch lightly at Lexa's shoulder.

“You're funny, Lex,” Octavia tells her, heading back to the bar.

This is only one of the instances where Lexa thinks that maybe she isn't getting the hang of it, and what  _ if _ —)

(She doesn't let herself think about this either.)

* * *

 

The first time Lexa works with Clarke, Lexa is wearing a lot of eyeliner, and she's fairly sure that her left eye has a wider coat then the right. The wings are also embarrassingly clumsy.

The point is: it is not at all her best work.

(If Lexa had known today would be her first real shift with Clarke, she definitely would have done better.)

Lexa is standing in the kitchen waiting for a burger for one of her tables when Clarke comes up beside her. “Hey Lexa,” Clarke greets her, bumping their hips playfully. “How're the solo shifts going?”

(Lexa accidentally swallows her last piece of gum, but aside from her slightly watering eyes, there is no other sign of her choking fit. Looking like a jittery dumbass was not on her to-do list this morning.)

“Good,” Lexa says tightly with a curt nod, digging her nails into her palm to distract from the feeling that her gum might come back up.

Clarke clearly had hoped for more of a response, if the beat of silence is anything to go by, but then the blonde grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling with her smile. “That’s good. Raven can sometimes do a lot of showing-and-telling without giving you a chance to try something yourself, so.” Clarke rocks on her heels a little. “I’m glad you got the hang of it.”

Lexa nods, turning back to the line of food. She tries to mentally run through her tables’ orders instead of the soft shape of Clarke’s jaw, instead of how her blonde hair smells like honey, instead of how it probably feels like it too, instead of the texture of Clarke’s voice when it brushes through the air, instead of anything to do with the girl standing beside her staring at Lexa like she  _ wants _ something.

The staring is actually breaching some creepy levels, and Lexa flexes her jaw, shifting to her other foot.

No, really, Clarke’s been staring for a solid minute now, and Lexa might actually say something.

Clarke’s licking her lips and, okay, Lexa’s definitely saying something.

“Do you—”

“I am so jealous of your eyeliner skills.”

Lexa blinks rapidly, glancing back over at Clarke again. “Oh. Thank you.”

Clarke leans in closer, eyes narrowing slightly as she inspects the makeup around Lexa’s eyes. Lexa goes to mirror the movement by taking a step back, but she only prods her back against the corner of the dessert cooler.

(Clarke pretends to not notice.)

“Seriously, I could kill for your talent. What’s your secret?”

Lexa could sincerely strangle the tendencies that straight girls have for forgetting personal space. If she tries any harder to not look down at Clarke’s mouth, she will definitely pop a vessel in her forehead.

“I use a felt-tip eyeliner,” Lexa says, clenching her jaw. 

Clarke nods, breaching just an inch closer that Lexa _might_ start to do something as terrible as _fantasizing_ that Clarke is going to do something _entirely_ inappropriate—

And Clarke backs up again, drumming her hands enthusiastically against her own thighs. “Good to know. I’ll have to stop by Sephora after work today.”

“You do that,” Lexa tells her with a straight face, lips pressed tightly. Her burger comes up then, the cook tossing a ticket out, and Lexa nearly jumps for it. 

(Lexa wants to wish that Clarke will get the message and back off, but—)

(She also kind of hopes Clarke won’t.)

* * *

 

It’s a Thursday night the next time that Lexa works with Clarke. 

Lexa has five tables—

73 needs a refill on water and the girl with the glasses wants another margarita—

72 has their menus set aside and are looking around for Lexa, ready to place their orders—

71 wants a side of ranch, a side of soy sauce (which she has to go to the basement to find), fresh-ground pepper, and another round of drinks—

70 is yet to be greeted—

And 74 is trying to pay with a gift card, Lexa has zero idea how to process it, and Bellamy is behind the bar helping Octavia make drinks for a party of nineteen college girls in the back of the restaurant.

Lexa is at the end of the bar, unintentionally tapping her foot impatiently as she waits for the manager to come to her.

“Hi.”

Lexa swivels in place at the hot voice in her ear, and then Clarke’s hands are on the sides of her arms, holding Lexa in attempt to prevent Lexa’s running into her.

“Hi,” Lexa breathes, clutching the server book and gift card tightly to her chest.

Clarke smirks (her lips are  _ oh-so-captivating _ ). “Do you need anything?” she repeats slowly, though not condescending.

(Lexa thinks she might need something the blonde can’t give her.)

The brunette clears her throat before nodding. “Yes. I, um, I don’t know how to run a gift card.”

(Oh, if Anya could see her now, she’d smack the living shit out of her.)

Clarke is not at all belittling when she smiles. The blonde drops her hand to Lexa’s forearm, leading her to a computer. (Lexa thinks she could get used to Clarke’s hands on her like this.) 

Lexa brings up her table’s payment screen and holds the card out to Clarke, who promptly shakes her head. “Nope, I’ll tell you, and you do it.” Clarke then proceeds to guide Lexa through the commands in the computer. Let it be known, truly, that Lexa is putting an _almighty fucking_ _shit load_ of effort into keeping her attention on the computer screen.

(Lexa can’t remember if she swore this much before pretty straight girls looked at her like she was the ruler of the ground.)

As the gift receipt is printing and Lexa’s hand hovers over it, she angles her head slightly. “Thank you, Clarke.”

Clarke’s grin is all cheeky and grossly stunning. “Yeah, of course, anytime. I meant it when I said don’t be afraid to ask questions.” At that, Clarke’s rubbing Lexa’s shoulder again, and it’s so damn  _ affectionate _ that Lexa wants to hate it with every fiber in her. Her skin curdles at how she wants to hate the way Clarke’s pinky is caressing off the sleeve of Lexa’s shirt and skimming her bare skin, and Lexa knows she’s sweating buckets in her black uniform while Clarke’s immaculate in her white blouse, and “ _ engaged women are off limits”  _ is running a sinful marathon through her head.

“Thank you,” Lexa repeats. 

Clarke doesn’t move her hand.

Clarke opens her mouth to say—

“I have to go,” Lexa tells her, shimmying out of Clarke’s hand. “I’m really busy.”

“Okay.” Clarke’s hand falls to her side. (Lexa thinks her face might too, but she can’t tell.) “Do you need anything else? Can I get you anything?”

Lexa shakes her head, passing a tight smile to the blonde before disappearing back downstairs to the kitchen.

_ 73 needs a refill and the girl with the glasses wants another margarita. 72 has their menus set aside and engaged women are off limits. _

* * *

 

Later that night, once the dinner rush has dissolved and she’s less busy, Lexa hops on her toes, reaching for a to-go box on the top of the shelf, when she feels delicate hands on her waist, and someone moving about her.

“Right behind you,” she murmurs in Lexa’s ear, and an arm reaches around to grab the coffee pot under the shelf Lexa is scrabbling at, and Lexa just makes out Clarke’s face maneuvering beneath her, and—

(For the record, the symptoms of a heart attack are pain between shoulder blades and in the arm, dizziness, and fatigue, and Lexa is running it all through her head right now because Clarke is  _ pressed against her fucking ass _ and Lexa can feel the roundness of Clarke’s breasts against the middle of her back, and Lexa was just trying to get a  _ fucking _ to-go box, and  _ whatever happened to goddamn personal space _ .)

—Lexa nearly collapses back onto the flats of her feet, knocking down a box plastic silverware, and elbowing Clarke’s right tit.

“Fuck— I’m so sorry,” Lexa blurts, as they both go down to the floor to pick up the mess, with Lexa’s hands out towards Clarke like she might pat down the wounded area but then thinks better of it, leaving her hands hovering over Clarke’s chest and  _ basically _ — Lexa is wishing for a heart attack to feign out of this embarrassing situation.

Clarke’s smirking though, and she chuckles, picking up the spilled to-go silverware so nonchalantly like Lexa’s cheeks aren’t boiling. “It’s cool,” the blonde tells her, her lips smug. “I kind of liked it.” Clarke winks as she stands back up, grabbing the coffee pot, and walking coolly out of the server’s station.

Lexa wants to slam her head against the soda machine.

* * *

 

At Arkadia’s Restaurant, there are ten sections, each containing four to six tables. The four sections towards the back of the structure have four tables, the next four sections having five, and the front two areas each with six. As business slows down closer to closing time, the manager lets go of the back sections first, and then the middle, while the two front sections stay on until the end of the night. 

If it gets catastrophically slow, like the kind of slow that has Lexa stacking sugar packets on top of ketchup bottles in the office with an eye on the security cameras in case anyone magically comes in, then they cut it down to one front section. 

On a Monday night, Clarke is that closing manager and puts Lexa in that closing section, and that is precisely how the evening runs its course. Lexa has been serving on her own for two weeks now.

Lexa ran out of sugar and is making a tower of Splenda when Clarke walks into the office. 

“Hey, anything?”

Lexa’s eyes flit to the screens. “No.”

“Not yet, at least,” Clarke amends.

Lexa’s eyebrow rises. “Don’t tell me you’re still hopeful someone will come in.” 

“A girl can dream.” 

Clarke takes one of the leather chairs beside Lexa. The office is tight, maybe ten by fifteen feet, with a copying machine in the far right corner, while the entire left wall is taken up by two desk computers, along with the panel of small security screens, the rest of the room dashed with scattered papers and boxes.

So, logically, there is no where for Clarke to sit that isn’t  _ technically _ beside Lexa.

But, you know, a girl can dream that pretty blondes like you enough to sit next to you.

Lexa keeps her focus on balancing the fourth Splenda packet, and not on Clarke’s curious blue eyes.

(That’s what she convinces herself she’s accomplishing, at least.)

After fourteen minutes, Lexa sighs, giving up on the sugar, and glances at her watch. Half an hour until close, still. Clarke is typing away on the computer, logging notes about the shift, and Lexa resists the urge to read over her shoulder. 

“What are the cooks doing?” Lexa asks instead.

The blonde’s hands gently hover above the keyboard, her head tilting slightly to Lexa. “Playing poker, I think. I sent most of them home already. Everything’s already cleaned.”

Lexa nodded, drumming her fingers on the armrest. There was a tremor building behind her eyes, a reflexive  _ urge _ to let her gaze wander over Clarke. It’d be so easy, to just indulge her bored mind and admire someone so infuriatingly attractive. 

(Okay, she’s pretty sure that delighting in someone’s physical features when they’re not looking doesn’t qualify as “flirting with engaged women.”)

Clarke’s shirt is a pearly white, decorated with black palm tree prints that make Lexa reminisce of warmer breezes. It curves just right at her ribs, wrapping snuggly at her hips in a way of leaving very little of Clarke’s shape to Lexa’s vivid imagination. 

It’s easier on Lexa’s breathing that the blonde is faced away from her, that Lexa can’t see the dip of cleavage that had been rattling alarms in Lexa’s skull all night. It’s lucky that Clarke’s sitting, because despite the fact that Lexa’s never really been a butt kind of girl, Clarke has an ass that can only be called an ass because it’s so wickedly seductive with the power of turning Lexa’s thoughts vulgar and  _ so so so  _ inappropriate.

“Can I braid your hair?”

Lexa blinks.

Clarke has swiveled around in the chair, very totally completely catching Lexa’s wandering eyes (and blatantly ignoring them), and is looking at Lexa hopefully.

— _ hopefully _ —

(Braiding is not flirting, Lexa reminds herself. It’s in the handbook.)

“Uh, sure.”

Clarke claps her hands eagerly, earning a jump from Lexa, before the blonde starts swinging her hips to scoot her chair closer to Lexa’s.

(Lexa is now realizing that this is possibly one of the worst choices she has ever made.)

“I love braiding hair. My mom taught me when I was eight, and  _ God _ , there was never a day in school after that where my hair wasn’t done up.” Clarke’s grabbing at Lexa’s shoulders, angling her away so she can scooch closer. “I stopped in high school, I think,” Clarke adds as she’s gently prying Lexa’s hairband off.

Fire ants are uniting with a bloodthirsty vengeance under Lexa’s skin right now. On any given day, Anya could ruffle Lexa’s hair, and the latter brunette would shimmy away in a fit of giggles. The girl was damn ticklish.

(That’s what she told herself, anyway.)

“Why’s that?” Lexa manages, knitting her knuckles together tightly. 

Clarke’s stood up by now, dismissing her chair, and her hands are threading through long, dark locks. “Why’d I stop, you mean?” Lexa only nods, and Clarke flicks at her scalp for moving. “It was kind of stupid, actually. I was so in love with this boy in my astronomy class, and he said once that girls were always hotter with their hair down.” Clarke chuckles, (Lexa dissolves). “And now I’m engaged to that jerk.”

Lexa thinks Clarke meant it as a joke, a lighthearted sarcastic jab laced with affection, but Lexa can't help but notice a fleeting hesitation under her breath.

Clarke’s fingers in her hair never waver, threading constantly, mechanically. 

“Boys suck,” Lexa offers lamely, biting her lip. 

Clarke laughs, harder than she should (because it wasn't that funny), but it makes Lexa smile sheepishly at the way hands get sloppy in her hair. 

“Totally; amen to that. They’re such nightmares.”

This is such a goddamn open window to blurt  _ “hey Clarke, I’m gay as shit! Like a plaid-wearing, short-haired tennis player gay!” _ , but Lexa can’t risk the awkward silence, the stiff, forced words that straight girls resort to when they think there’s this ulterior agenda to get into their pants.

(Even with Clarke —  _ especially  _ with Clarke — there isn’t. Flirting with engaged women is off limits.)

Lexa swallows. “I dated this guy in high school, and I went over to his house one night. We’d been dating about a month. He was showing me this video game, an old Call of Duty I think, and, shit, I kicked his ass.” Lexa laughs, thinking back at his bratty astonishment. “He was furious, my God, he broke up with me next week. He said it was because I wouldn't put out, but… Well, you should have seen his face when he lost.”

Clarke absolutely  _ loses  _ it with laughter. It’s no wonder that everyone loves her – you could say pudding and this chick is gonna crack up. She makes Lexa feel special, honored. She creates a balance between employee and manager, an equal scale like neither is above or below, but rather they are two souls with the same intent. Lexa’s grinning, her cheeks widely spread in a way they haven't in months as Clarke drops her half-done braids, kneeling onto the desk over her laughter.

“Boys are such  _ dicks _ ,” Clarke gasps, hands on her stomach, shaking her head As she quickly grew more serious. “Who even cares anymore about putting out? If you’re not ready, you’re not  _ ready _ .”

“Being ready wasn’t exactly the issue at hand,” Lexa snorts before she can think about it.

“What do you mean?” Clarke’s picking Lexa’s hair back up again, and the brunette shivers.

“Oh. Um.” Lexa looks to the security camera, like someone might be at the hostess stand looking for a table, like she might find a quick route out of this question. “I just didn't like him all that much to begin with.”

Lexa wants to think Clarke’s hands pause around her curls, but they’re back at their swift pace before her mind can catch up.

“Makes total sense.”

Lexa nods, and Clarke swats at her shoulder for moving.

* * *

 

There’s a very specific reason that, that weekend, Lexa is at a downtown bar, drunk off her ass, with Clarke sitting in her lap, saying things like “Lexa, stop grabbing my ass, I’m not gonna fall.”

(And Lexa responding with things like “Yes, yes Clarke, you really are, no,  _ no _ I’m not letting you go, also you have a really nice butt.”)

(“Thanks, Lexa.”)

And to be entirely clear, it is most definitely Raven’s fault.

Octavia agrees, for the record.

* * *

 

It went like this:

Lexa is at the bar garnishing the margaritas for her table when Raven saunters over, all bounce to her step, and a stupid ass grin on her face.

It takes a beat for Lexa to notice the girl. Lexa’s eyebrow solely rises inquisitively.

“Do you like karaoke?”

“No.”

Raven frowns, and glances down the bar. “’O!” Octavia cranes her neck to look back, mid-drink-mixing. “Lexa doesn’t like karaoke.”

Octavia looks like she might hurl the cocktail shaker at Raven’s head.

“Raven. We’re not going.”

“Yes, we are.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes, we—”

“Go where?” Lexa interrupts, but quickly weighs whether she should have butt in at all, or simply taken her drinks and made a run for it.

Octavia's is nine parts irritated and one part cautious when she tells Lexa, “Polis. It’s a bar.”

“And it’s karaoke night,” Raven supplies, her grin wildly out of control.

All Lexa has to say is “Right.”

Raven’s smile drops, and a pout takes its place. “Okay, no one else will go with me because Octavia’s a bitch and told them not to, but everyone likes you, so if you come, everyone else will too.”

“No, nobody knows who I am,” Lexa corrects.

“Exactly. You’re an enigma with tits, Lexa. We’re all very intrigued.”

Lexa’s not entirely sure if she’s being flattered or used.

“Um.”

Raven grasps Lexa by both her shoulders, eyes wide and mouth plump. “Please, Lexa. From master to grasshopper, I am begging you.”

Octavia is rolling her eyes.

For the last three weeks, Lexa hasn’t exactly “gone out,” save for her lunch date with Anya that first day she applied to Arkadia’s where she washed down a few beers. No matter how much she wants to squash everything else down and focus solely on her work, to make money and make her own living and shove aside her insecure looming doubts, she can’t deny that she  _ used _ to cradle Grey Goose bottles by the neck and lick at the spout like it was water, and every uptown party had a subtitle of  _ Lexa Woods will make an appearance when the wine bottles come out _ . As much of a cliche it is, Lexa is forced to admit that she likes partying — and, not to mention there’s a loneliness trickling into this lifestyle she’s conjured up. There’s an empty post in her chest, in her head. 

She wants to ignore it.

Octavia is rolling her eyes and Lexa is shrugging and Lexa is saying yes to karaoke night.

* * *

 

Once Lexa’s handled her cash-out for the shift, she begins to realize quite how many of the staff Raven’s rounded up. Two cooks, Atom and Wells have come down into the office to pound Raven on the back in excited anticipation. Lexa hands her pile of merchant receipts to Bellamy when the curly-haired man grins at the two boys.

“She got you too, huh?” he asks with a smirk, thumbing the calculator at his desk.

“Hell yeah, she did,” Atom whoops, his grin broad.

Wells slings his arm around Atom’s neck with a matching boyish smile. “We’re ready for you Bell to check out the kitchen when you kiddos finish up your little math games.”

“Don’t bullshit, Wells,” Raven purrs, sliding her receipts over to Bellamy as the man is handing Lexa her earnings for the night. “We all know you got your bachelor’s in finances at GU. These numbers give you such a hard-on, I’m almost jealous.” Raven swats at his cheek with a stack of bills playfully.

“Reyes, you know I’d never go soft for you.”

Lexa snorts at this, her fingers swiftly stuffing her cash into her jacket pocket.

This only fuels Wells’ amusement. “So the Commander’s got a funny side, does she?”

Lexa wrinkles her eyebrows at Raven, despite the tingling smile poking her lips up. “Where did that nickname even get started?”

Raven shrugs as the two girls are gathering their belongings, Bellamy having handed Raven her tips as well. “You had this badass look to you at first. It was misleading.”

Lexa rolls her eyes.

The next clue comes as the two girls are heading up the stairs when the dishwashers start belting out a rendition of Katy Perry for Raven, miming microphones in their hands.

Two other servers, Harper and Jasper, are on the landing folding laundry as Lexa and Raven pass. “Don’t have too much fun without us, ladies,” the boy coos over his shoulder. “We’ll be there soon enough to catch up.”

It isn’t until they’re walking out the door when a regular customer goes to confirm with Raven that tonight was karaoke night at Polis that Lexa leans in and whispers, “You weren’t kidding when you said  _ everyone _ , were you?”

Raven only returns the comment with a sultry smirk.

* * *

 

Lexa and Raven were among the first to arrive with a couple other coworkers Lexa barely recognized, and the small group claimed a long table lined with benches a few tables away from the karaoke stage, but after Raven’s already coerced Lexa into her second Baby Guinness, Octavia and Bellamy make it in. The roommates must run on some twisted wavelength, because Octavia and Raven have a mirrored glint to their eyes as they silently communicate an agreement for a round of tequila shots.

Lexa is quickly realizing that karaoke night means getting trashed enough to actually participate.

After that, Lexa’s feeling the alcohol churning in her gut, and decides to wash her first three shots down with a tall beer. She might as well act like she’s not tossing her cool responsibility to the wind and appear calm and collected.

Halfway through her beer, Lexa watches Raven wipe away the excess of some tequila on her chin and clamber up onto the stage with some Kelly Clarkson requests.

She takes the beer down quicker than she’d anticipated, but a subtle  _ fuck it _ is chanting in her head, and it’s only seconds before Lexa has another pint of beer in her hands.

By the end of this fifth drink, Clarke arrives.

Lexa is just short of funneling the last drops of her beer down her throat when Clarke’s “Hi guys!” causes her to slam the glass back on the table like someone tazed her, and she’s gurgling the liquid at her throat in a coughing fit. Octavia pats her back unhelpfully.

“You good?” Clarke asks her playfully, eyebrow raised as she shrugs off her jacket.

Once she’s gathered herself, Lexa blurts out Clarke’s name with pitched fervor.

The blonde is grinning when she mockingly responds with an equally excited “Lexa!”

Lexa hiccups just as the bartender drops off another beer in front of the brunette (she doesn’t remember ordering this one, and she’s lost count).

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Lexa manages as Clarke settles onto the bench beside her.

Clarke shrugs nonchalantly. “I had the evening free.” Lexa expects her to go on, but the blonde vaguely leaves it at that.

Lexa’s gaze is enraptured by those blue eyes, and there’s a blurry mantra about engaged women in the back of her head, but she’s not quite sure she remembers the lyrics anymore.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Lexa admits.

Clarke laughs this soulful, adorable laugh (and Lexa is so smitten it’s disgusting). “Me too. Raven left a dozen messages on my phone, so my appearance is really just a cease-fire.” Lexa giggles (so so  _ so _ stupidly). “But the fact you’re here is most definitely a bonus making me glad I came.”

The way Clarke is eyeing Lexa makes her think she  _ might _ be— 

—doing  _ something  _ like—

— _ flirting _ —

(Lexa reaches for her beer).

* * *

 

There’s some unspoken knowledge that Lexa missed out on, because Clarke isn’t drinking, and when Raven and Octavia hound over another round of shots, no one pushes one towards Clarke.

Lexa, on the other hand, gets five pairs of hands clapping her back and nearly tipping the glasses over to make sure she’s got one in her hand.

It isn’t until she’s had the shot and almost finished her last beer that she catches onto Clarke’s sober state. Clarke is over by the stage scrolling through the karaoke selection with Wells.

Lexa just manages to suppress a whine in her throat when she calls for Clarke and gestures the girl over. The blonde’s head bobs up, catches her eye, and there’s this smile that Lexa likes to think maybe only she gets to see tonight before Clarke rubs Wells’ shoulder (Lexa grits her teeth) and makes her way back.

More of Arkadia’s servers have taken up the bench, and Clarke hesitates at the lack of seating available, and Lexa immediately seizes the moment to tug Clarke down onto her lap.

The blonde lets out this glorious squeak of a laugh, clutching at Lexa’s forearms, but nonetheless sinking back into her.

“You looked like you were going to fall,” Lexa manages, forgetting what she was going to ask and wrapping her arms tightly about Clarke’s waist, and  _ God _ there was this heat to her body, enveloping the room in a feverous glow; Lexa didn’t understand how it didn’t blaze everyone else in the room. 

“Oh, did I now?” Clarke laughs, readjusting herself so her legs were sideways off Lexa’s lap.

Lexa nods seriously. “I was protecting you.”

Clarke drapes an arm on Lexa’s shoulder, her hand immediately seeking out to play with the dark hair. “I appreciate it, very much.”

Lexa grins a sloppy, crooked,  _ drunk _ smile.

* * *

 

“Lexa, I’m  _ fine _ .”

“No, Clarke, no you’re slipping.”

Clarke squeals and slaps Lexa’s shoulder playfully. “ _ Lexa! _ ”

“I will not let you fall,  _ Clarke _ .”

Huffing, Clarke slips a hand between the two of them and honks Lexa’s right breast.

Lexa, in turn, screeches and squirms, but Clarke clutches at her shoulders to keep them both from tumbling off the bench. Lexa gapes in offense once she recovers. 

“Stop cupping my ass,” Clarke exclaims with a breathy laugh that brushes Lexa’s curls. “I’m ticklish.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Lexa.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“You were sliding off.”

* * *

 

Bellamy and Raven hobble onto stage as some P!nk duet starts to pump through the speakers. Clarke turns to the pair, letting out a cheer, before Lexa squeezes around her hips, despite that the blonde is still yet to show any inclination of leaving her “seat.”

(Lexa’s thighs are going numb, but she’s not complaining.)

Lexa remembers her thoughts from earlier. “Why aren’t you drinking?” she squeaks into Clarke’s shoulder, leaning forward into her.

Still laughing at her friends, Clarke drops her gaze back to the brunette beneath her. “Hm?”

“You’re not drinking.”

“Oh.” A sliver of something seeming guilt reveals itself. She opens her mouth, her lips parted just so that Lexa’s eyes zero down on them despite her numerous efforts, and Clarke looks like she might spill a rehearsed response, something memorized before her shoulders slack and the blonde leans in closer. “Um… do you want to go outside?”

Lexa blinks. “Outside?”

Clarke’s mouth perks into a soft smile. “Yeah. Just for a sec. You look like you could use some fresh air.”

(Lexa nearly pushes Clarke off of her in her scramble to drag Clarke outside for the chance to be alone together.)

* * *

 

They don’t go far, really. There’s a bench just outside the bar that they make their way to.

(“Make their way” meaning Lexa stumbling over her sneakers and Clarke rushing behind her to make sure the brunette doesn’t collapse on the concrete.)

Lexa drops against the armrest with a huff, curling her feet underneath herself on the bench, and Clarke sighs, settling beside her. There’s a breeze, not quite brisk but just unsettling enough for the girls to seemingly huddle together.

Lexa tips her head back and watches the sky, the swirling gray of clouds and the faded glitter of stars splashed onto the canvas. She thinks of shooting stars, of constellations. In her intoxicated haze, it feels like maybe somewhere, in some time, that she and the blonde beside her execute some greater power.

Clarke glances at the brunette beside her, eyes flowing over the girl’s face, along a sculpted jawline, the curve of a gentle chin, her sloped lips.

Clarke looks up to the sky, trying to see what Lexa sees.

She’s not sure that she does.

“Finn’s an alcoholic,” Clarke says quietly, eyes dropping away from the sky. Lexa too tears her focus away and pinpoints onto Clarke. “I mean, he’s recovered. He’s been sober for two years now.” Clarke’s breath shudders, puffing jagged clouds. Lexa’s not sure if it’s the cold. “He never asked me to stop, obviously, and, I mean, I’ve had a fair share of drinks in the past two years. But since we moved in together, I try not to come home with it on my breath, you know?”

Lexa nods slowly.

“Nobody really talks about what… what  _ I’m _ supposed to do. You know, he has his support groups and there’re  _ his _ missions and  _ his _ goals but… I feel like I’m just standing there most of the time, tip-toeing.”

Lexa bites on the inside of her cheek.

Clarke scratches at the side of her head, lips twitching. “I don’t, um, talk about this. Usually.”

Lexa tilts her head, brows furrowing.

Clarke catches the movement and looks up at her, eyes a bit wider than they were before. “I mean, I try not to turn Arkadia’s into my personal Gossip Girl. Some things you leave back at home.”

Lexa’s face clears out and she nods, albeit roughly, but she blames that on the charging alcohol in her system. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Clarke laughs dryly, and Lexa blinks rapidly in confusion. She’s drawn to the sound, encaptured to its waves. “Sorry, it’s not funny I just…”

Lexa shuffles her feet out from under her, and nudges her knee against Clarke’s comfortingly. Or, well, she slips a little and almost tumbles off the bench, to which Clarke shoots her hand out and stabilizes her, but the end-result is the same.

“I don’t know why I told you,” Clarke admits.

Lexa scrunches her nose. “If it helps, I lost track after my sixth drink. It’s safe to say I might not remember most of this tomorrow.” Her words are still jostled and awkward, but they pass on clearly enough.

Clarke finally cracks and smile, and Lexa mirrors it sloppily.

“I wouldn’t mind if you do,” Clarke says.

Lexa’s not quite sure what to say to that.

Something like  _ flirting with engaged women is off-limits  _ tickles her subconscious. 

And by the way Clarke is smiling at her, like there’s no time to the evening, like there’s no boundaries to this world, like mantras don’t exist—

Lexa wants to forget everything about engagements.

* * *

 

Lexa watches the clouds drift some more, and at some point Clarke tips her head onto Lexa’s shoulder. Lexa wants to call it affection, but her sober thoughts are trickling in. She’s seen the way Clarke has lain her head across Octavia’s lap before a meeting started, or rested in a half-armed hug with Bellamy in the office on a particularly bored shift.

The point is: she doesn’t read into it.

“I should go soon,” Lexa says finally. She works in the morning.

She feels the blonde shift against her before her response comes. “I’m leaving in a bit, too. Finn’s on his way here.” Lexa focuses on the Big Dipper. “How’re you getting home? Do you need a ride?”

Home.

Something inside Lexa blinks awake.

It aches in her chest like a wailing child with a hand over its mouth.

It’s groggy.

Home.

Lexa sits up straight, stirring, causing Clarke to lift her head up. She forces a smile at the blonde, rubbing her hands together. “I can take a cab, it’s fine.”

A pickup pulls around the corner down the street, a few blocks down. From the way Clarke catches it in her sights and tightens her jacket about herself, Lexa can only guess.

She doesn’t think she has it in her to meet him, and so Lexa stands before Clarke can say anything more.

“I’m gonna head back inside for a bit, say bye, pay my tab and all,” Lexa says awkwardly, stuffing her hands into her pockets.

Clarke’s chin bobs in a nod, leaning back like that’s that, and Lexa’s turning her back but then Clarke’s grabbing her shoulder and pulling her into a hug.

She’s warm, Lexa thinks. 

Her arms wind around that comfortable waist, and their bodies create something new in the way they fit together, in the way Clarke’s cold nose dives into her neck, and Lexa resists a chuckle.

“Thanks for letting me vent a bit,” Clarke murmurs. Lexa only nods.

It doesn’t last long. Of course it doesn’t. 

Clarke pulls away with a wide, truly appreciative smile. Lexa can’t remember the last time she felt so warm. 

“I’ll see you later, Lexa.”

Again, Lexa only nods, offering a slight, awkward ( _ stupid stupid stupid _ ) wave as she dips back inside the bar and Clarke hops into the truck.

Whether it’s the insatiably pounding music inside, the power of tequila still in her veins, or her hammering heart, Lexa knows one thing for sure.

She is so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just had surgery in my throat last week and i'm seriously medicated, so again thanks @staryuniverse for checkin out the coherence of these gay vibes.
> 
> if i don't sleep away this next week i might update sooner but bother me at [@izztstei](http://izztstei.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> comments are worshiped and kudos appreciated <3


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